Dead of Winter

Stuart Melvin Kaminsky Dead of Winter

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The first book in the CSI: New York series, 2005

'Do you own another gun?' asked Mac.

Louisa Cormier looked mildly amused. 'No.'

'Have you ever fired a gun?'

'Yes, as part of my research. My character Pat Fantome is an ex-police officer with a very good aim. I think it helps to know how it feels to fire a gun. I go to Drietch's Range on Fifty-eighth.'

'We'll find it,' said Mac. 'One more question. Do you have any idea how Lutnikov's blood got on the carpet outside your elevator door?'

'No. I'm really a suspect, aren't I?' She seemed pleased by the possibility.

'Yes,' said Mac. 'But so are all your neighbors.'

With thanks to Bruce Whitehead and the Crime Scene Investigation Unit of the Sarasota, Florida, County Sheriff's Office; to Lee Lofland, Denene Lofland, and Dr. D. P. Lyle for their forensic knowledge and willingness to share it with me; and to Hugo Parrilla, retired Detective N.Y.P.D. 24th Squad, for sharing his knowledge of New York City.

Prologue

IT WAS A NIGHT FOR DREAMING.

It was the beginning of February, the coldest time of the year in New York, always the coldest. Don't let them tell you about the storms of January or the surprise downfalls and frigid blasts from Canada that come down sometimes as early as early November and as late as late March.

No, you could count on February being the most unforgiving month of the year. And this one was particularly spiteful.

The temperature teased thermometers at the zero level. The winds played angrily, howling through ghostly empty streets in the five boroughs. The snow fell steadily, relentlessly, siltlike, no good for packing or making snowballs when Saturday morning came in a few hours.

City plows chugged steadily, in convoys and alone, trying to keep pathways open on the streets. The garbage had not been picked up. The plows shoved mounds of snow over dark plastic bags, burying them till something resembling a thaw came so that garbage trucks could make their way through hundreds of miles of slippery streets.

Four in the morning.

Mac Taylor turned to his left in bed. He had an alarm clock but never turned it on. He always awoke within a few minutes of four in the dark morning. For another hour he would put his hands behind his head and look up at the ceiling, watching the light from passing cars, stars, and the moon vibrate on his bedroom ceiling. Tonight there was no traffic, no stars or moon through the snowy sky. He looked up at darkness, reasonably successful at not thinking, knowing he would get up in an hour, hoping that hour would pass soon.

Stella Bonasera had a feverish dream. She had just fallen back to sleep after having gotten up to take two Tylenols and have a glass of microwaved tea. In her dream, the huge bloated body of a woman hovered above a bed like a Thanksgiving Day float. Stella felt it was up to her to keep the body from floating out of an open window nearby, but she couldn't move. She hoped the body was too large to fit through the window. Atop the woman's body sat a cat, a gray cat, looking solemnly at Stella. Then the dream was gone and Stella slept peacefully.

Aiden Burn had fallen asleep at about two in the morning trying to remember the name of her second-year high school math teacher. Mrs. Farley or Farrell or Furlong? She could see the woman's face, remember her voice. In what was a dream, or possibly just a reverie, Aiden heard the voice of that teacher reminding the class for the five hundredth time that it was the little mistakes that brought you the wrong answers. 'You might see the big picture, but one small mistake, one careless moment, and everything that follows will be forever wrong.' Aiden had remembered that more than anything else from any high school class. She had tried to live by it, but still it haunted her, especially when the wind tickled the windows and a deep chill overcame the hissing radiators.

Danny Messer reached for his glasses and checked the red illuminated numbers on the bedside clock. It was a few minutes after four. He touched his face. He would need to shave when he got up. He would do it in the shower. He would think about it later. He rolled on his left side in search of a comfortable position, found it instantly, and fell into dreamless sleep.

Sheldon Hawkes lay on a cot in his laboratory reading a book about an archaeological find in Israel. There was a photograph of a skull located at the site. The text, by someone whose name he didn't recognize, said that the skull was about three thousand years old and had been damaged by some natural disaster. Hawkes shook his head. The hole in the skull was the result of a blow with a rough-edged rock. It was the only damage to the specimen. No scratches, no bruises. The skull was almost perfectly preserved. If the hole had been caused by nature, there would be other signs of lesser trauma. Hawkes needed the original skull or a good set of photographs. There was no doubt the long-dead man had been killed by a blow from a rock, and, since it was assumed from artifacts discovered near the body that the dead man was royalty, Hawkes was curious about who might have murdered him and why. When he finished the book, he would send an E-mail to the archaeologist. Hawkes kept reading. He had already had the four hours of sleep he needed. He was near the bodies in the drawers. The wind was going wild in the streets. He had a good book. He was content.

Don Flack may have dreamt, but he didn't remember his dreams, which was just as well because the detective had seen much that could cause him nightmares. The alarm would go off at seven, and he would be awake instantly. It had been like that since he was a boy. He hoped it would be like that the rest of his life.

The brothers Marco slept half a city apart. Anthony, in holding on Riker's Island, only floated around the edges of sleep. Jail was not a place for comfortable slumber. Jails at night were a disgusting antisymphony of hacking coughs, snoring, people talking to themselves in their sleep, guards walking. Jails were places where you had to stay just this side of awake so nothing and no one would sneak up on you. Not that Anthony thought someone might be coming for him, but you never knew who you might have slighted or insulted without realizing it. Outside, the name Anthony Marco meant something. Inside, he was just another old, white fool. In the morning he would be back in court. If things went well, the course of the trial would change in his favor. He didn't exactly count on it, but felt it should happen.

Anthony's brother Dario was awake. Insomnia. His wife's snoring. His bad stomach. He got up and went to the bathroom where he sat and read Entertainment Weekly. He was nervous. Tonight, close to right now, it was happening. He had made a call five hours ago to change the plan. His daughter had convinced him that it was the best way to go, and since he was thinking along those lines anyway, he made the call. Things could go wrong. When you counted on dumb people, you took a chance, even when the dumb people were loyal. Marco had a theory. Only dumb people could truly be counted on to be loyal. Smart people thought too much, looked out for themselves. Marco knew. He was one of the smart people. Hell with it. He went back to bed and nudged his wife, hoping she would turn to the side and stop snoring. She grunted and turned, but the snoring got louder. He put a pillow over his head and told himself that if he didn't fall asleep in the next four or five minutes he would get up.

Stevie Guista dreamt of water, just water, a broad expanse of water. He knew it was cold and he didn't want to go in, but it looked beautiful and all he wanted to do was keep watching it. Then he had the feeling. Something